Like Apples in Autumn
by HopelessOsaka
Summary: Episode 17: Phantasm Reborn:: Sinistra wipes the blood from Dextera's lips. His mind ponders, his heart frets, and his stomach screams, “nearer, nearer!” ‹SinistraDextera›


**Disclaimer:** (Herbal) Osaka-neechan does not own Kiddy Grade.

**Author:** (Herbal) Osaka-neechan

**Focus pairing:** Sinistra/Dextera

**Characters:** Sinistra, Dextera

**Time period:** The main part involves the episode 17, "Phantasm/Reborn," where Dextera gets his face whipped by Alv, and they go down the elevator afterwards

**Content warning:** Shounen-ai, slight YAOI _(Do people not read summaries..?)_

**Storyline warning:** Blooming relationships—as such, mental doubts, psychological barriers, awkward moments, and confusion for the reader abound

**Summary:** Sinistra wipes the blood from Dextera's lips_. His mind ponders, his heart frets, and his stomach screams, "nearer, nearer!"_

**Point of view:** Sinistra

**Person point of view:** Third person, present progressive _(I think…)_

_The conceptual corner:_ _Ooo_, the bolds and italics. Extremely pretty—extremely fun—and rather efficient, though some may think otherwise. See these "—"? Yes, Osaka-neechan does overdo those. Forgive her. /nod/ Letting the one-shot flow was difficult, because she gets carried away! In the end, Osaka-nee was unsure about the luscious boys' _character_. In fact, the fear was basically if she _could_ portray them right, not how. _Meh_. ›.›;;

Ah, a lovely comeback after four months—which is a long, bantam-sad story. -.-;;

_The reception corner:_ Ah, what is this? Creative writing?! Oo;; Gods. Well, typing this out was rather enjoyable for Osaka-neechan. Osaka-nee actually got stuck in a few parts, especially when she added in the flashback later so there would be a bit more zest (which she never planned on— -.-;; oh, the smutty self). It is _all_ a-alright!

Huh—how did this happen, though, Osaka-nee wonders? She thought on _Episode 17_, "What? There is no blood dripping from Dextera's lips anymore!" Then she was all, "Oh, the most natural thing in the world happened! Sinistra obviously took out a frilly pink handkerchief and wiped the blood off clean! Oh, Sinistra, you lovely manwhore!" So she had the inspiration, and was gonna type out a cutsie Sinistra/Dextera dribble where Sinistra frets in a Sinistra-way—but _this_ happened! Gods, gods. /shakes head/

Osaka-nee's worst problems were Dextera and Sinistra's personalities! Egh! ›.- These luscious bastard boys! TT;; What a pain. She made them, in her opinion, a little _too_ distant but obviously a _little_ too on-the-edge-on-jumping-one-another. Sinistra especially. That was hard, going on from his point of view. /sigh/ Osaka-nee does not have Kiddy Grade in her full grasp, and probably missed a few facts, and while typing this, lost a few facts in her head too, so there were revisions aplenty. So, as much as she tried keeping them _in_ their _original characterization_, she most likely tripped over herself somewhere.

Still, this was too great an urge to resist. Way too great! Dextera and Sinistra need to molest each other! Kiddy Grade needs much more incest, pedophilia, sadomasochism, shoujo and shounen-ai, but I adore this YAOI couple the most in there. There _must_ be more. Oh, _necessities_. XDD

Vhat?! You question the title?! Vell, if the story is not gorgeous, then something must be. /eye glint/ You man-voman! _Phwah_.

_The crackpot corner:_ The Armbrust baby has a _built-in_ suitcase! Extremely cool, _very_ extremely cool. /nod/

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**AUTUMN'S CHILDREN**

Short  


**(hands on a clock go tick-tock)**

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(It isn't as if Dextera _expects _it. But—)

His swallow is raw, festering, and the air around his skin is nippier than usual. He still stands close, perhaps closer than they normally are—_physically_—but his movement is awkward, his hand trembling as he lifts his handkerchief, softly patting off the blood streaming from Dextera's lips.

(he wishes…he wishes, _at times_ that perhaps, that he could be more—_passionate_. _Exuberant_.)

"There," he says, firmly—however, he sways his head backwards in hesitation, his feet working too clumsily for a GOTT S-class ES member.

(It is so _silly_—and the fact that he is using that word is, too, but after the uproar in his body from seeing the carnation-toned whip lash against the tanned skin—)

In a millisecond, his breath brushes against ruddy locks—a blush warms his cheeks in waking alarm—before a stretched palm, holding a familiar, clothed fragrance, is pushed lightly against his face.

(His stomach felt sick. Not the lurching, vomit-needy sick—no, a _stale_ sick, knelt by his partner as the young man became icier than he generally was. He was hateful that moment, _hateful, hateful, _**hateful**, because—because he…ah. Dextera—Dextera made him _feel _**this**.)

"Sinistra," the masculine voice cuts in, but his own hand reacts—his fingers are caught off guard, for Dextera's are much warmer—and they slowly tighten their hold.

(Any stranger worth their intelligence can notice in less than a moment that Dextera is, for an **auspicious** word, _brusque_, but _reserved_, more so than his partner—Dextera makes him appear all the more _chivalrous_. However, concerning most of the world, the duo acts almost dutifully towards what they are often called—_cool_, _collected._

_He touches skin darker than his, breath teasing a broader neck. Shoulders are bared, saliva-slicked teeth impressing reddened bruises on viscous flesh. He smiles, his stomach washed over by covetous pleasure, as vibration from the complaisant body underneath him grazes his cheeks._

"_Sinistra. Sinistra." The name is barely breathed._

_This makes him glance back, then stare. Not often does Dextera speak, when they are doing _this **here**_. Their bodies are vibrant in incandescence, from the starkest light filtered about the room; the blinds are pulled closed and curtained funereally. Dextera is sprawled on the plain bed-covered mattress, and his countenance—sweat trickling from the roots of his hair, amaranth locks damp and mussy, inhales and exhales stifled, orchid irises murked—is at its most passive._

_He shifts closer, pupils focusing on drier lips. Dextera blinks, hard, exhaling deeply. He can only listen in surprise when Dextera speaks, voice holding much more clarity and ardor than was expected._

"_Without…without _this_—_**you**_—I'm not Dextera." There is fierce conviction in the words, and eyebrows are furrowed; he catches paler, thinner wrists in his palms, held on his chest. He inhales, exhales, coarse, nearly a scoff._

_Sinistra stays still for a moment, cocking his head._

_Then, his lips quirk the slightest. He kisses a spot near Dextera's nose, making the young man shut an eye, and chuckles in a warm mirth, whispering, "Without Dextera, I would be a pretty boy who had a social life, I'm sure."_

_He earns a huff, and notices the grimacing squint. Still in amusement, his chapped lips press insistently on drier ones—a wet tongue rolls out and slips under the bottom lip, before they are immersed in each other's mouths, his willowy fingers teasing their way down gaunt hips._

Not many ES members realize the full scope of their relationship. It could come across as surprising amongst some, yet being who they are, as S-class ES members, and as how their personalities are disclosed, especially towards each other—_it is difficult, _to maintain more than their partnership—

_It is difficult, to have an actual—an actual _**relationship**.)

His stomach screams, "nearer, nearer!" _He _does_ want you to, he _**does**.

(It has been _awhile_—not since that night—since they—since they—)

His right hand grips uniform-clad shoulders, and he presses pale pinkish lips, unyielding, on the edge of Dextera's. He breathes, languorously, until wan, pasty eyelids slip open.

Cerise-red irises lock in on glassy blues, and they both stand still, stunned.

"I, I'm sorry." he hears himself say.

(_since they were so near._ He **misses**—)

Sinistra stumbles when trying to back off a few steps, lets his fingers fumble through alice-blue tresses, his gaze everywhere in the elevator except where Dextera stands.

"I'm sorry—" he begins again, feathery lashes framing half-lidded eyes, but abruptly stops.

(He misses _Dextera_, and their softer touches. Because he can never be sure if they can last, though he cannot be _Sinistra_ without Dextera.)

Warm fingers grip his, tightening—makes him glance back too swiftly.

There is shine in those irises, too grounded, too honest. Dextera makes him lose his wisp breath, makes a tremor reach and lodge in his throat, his nerves tinge—fingers react in an instant. (_Ff. _People assume that when he thinks, he thinks more than twice, or thrice over. He wonders, does he think too little or too much on Dextera, then? When, day by day, the young man inhabits his thoughts the most?)

(Yes—_when did that happen?_)

They are gone, those fingers, their brief, overwhelming insulation. His thumb rubs his index; his lungs' passages start once more at a gradual pace, and too slowly he takes in air. (He has an ambition.) His lips curve in effort, then relax. (If he can make him smile—)

Light filters, still lacks; the elevator door is open.

(if he can make Dextera smile, those fingers would stay closer—become hands, become arms, become a body against his.)

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**END**

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